


that one where dean picks sam up at stanford

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Sam, Canonical Character Death, Closeted Character, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Reunite, Engagement, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender Related, M/M, Pet Names, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam and Feelings, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad's disappeared so Dean does the only thing he can think of: go get Sam. He's not sure what Sam he's expecting to find but it's not this one, he thinks.</p><p>(aka, Sam has always wanted to be normal and now he is and Dean hates it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where dean picks sam up at stanford

Sam offers Dean a hand up and Dean takes it, stands and adjust his coat. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sam asks, and it's a hissing whisper, as if he doesn't want to wake up anyone else in the apartment. 

Dean's already had a chance to come to terms with that idea, even if it hits him again, low in the stomach, painful and crippling. He saw the tag on the buzzer out front, ' _J. Moore / S. Winchester_ ,' has been placing bets with himself on whether the 'J' stands for Joe or Justin or Jason -- knows for sure it wouldn't be John. "Well," he says, and he pushes down everything he's feeling. "I was looking for a beer." 

There's not much to say, not right away, and Dean drinks his fill of Sam, taking in how tall Sam's gotten, how much muscle Sam's put on -- not enough to be considered built, but much more than he left Dean with -- and, even more surprising, the complete lack of anything female: no nail polish, no make-up, he's wearing Target-standard mens pyjama bottoms and one of Dean's old shirts. There's no jewellery, no scent, and Sam's even cut his hair a little. 

Dean -- had not been expecting that. He thought, y'know, Stanford, California, this close to San Francisco, finally on his own, that Sam would've gone for whatever he wanted, stopped where he felt comfortable or even pushed just that little bit more, like Sam always does. Instead, Sam just looks like any average college male. Dean can't help but be a little disappointed. 

Before Dean has time to ask, the light's flicking on and he's blinking spots out of his eyes. He's thinking this has to be the boyfriend, the guy who replaced him, but fuck, it's a chick and she's fucking _hot_. 

"Sam?" she says. Her voice is like honey sliding down piano wire, thick and husky with sleep, taut with tension and waiting to ring out loud if Sam looks like he's panicking. "Everything okay, baby?"

"Yeah," Sam says, right as Dean's starting to glare at her for the pet name. "Jess, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Jessica." He pauses, just for a second, and the look in his eyes, all closed-off and dark, sends a shiver of foreboding down Dean's spine. "My fiancée."

Something in Dean's chest just -- just fucking shatters, hearing that. "Engaged," he says, trying to sound pleased even if it feels like his heart's breaking again. Granted, it hasn't been entirely whole since Sam left, but Dean thought he'd stitched it up good enough, thought he'd had enough time on the drive here from New Orleans to prepare himself. He obviously didn't. "Wow. Were you ever gonna tell me and Dad?"

Sam moves to Jessica's side, wraps one arm around her. She's almost as tall as Sam, has to be about the same height as Dean, and Dean's starting to get a funny feeling in his belly. He looks around the apartment, quick, fleeting glances, and then turns his gaze back to Sam. 

"It just happened tonight," Jessica says, and she looks up at Sam with such adoration on her face that Dean thinks -- no, he's wrong, he has to be, Sam would never be that cruel. Sam did leave him, though, and after so many promises to stay. "Sam proposed at a Hallowe'en party I dragged him to. Totally did not expect it, but it'll make a good story someday." She grins, Sam returns the smile, brushes a strand of hair off of her face. 

Dean wants to kick the ever-living-fucking-shit out of her. "Look," he says, instead, forcing a smile through clenched teeth. "Sorry for waking you up, _Jessica_ , but I need to borrow your boyfriend -- sorry, your _fiancé_ here for a minute, talk about some family business, you know how it is." 

She frowns, a cute little expression and turns to Sam, silently asks whether he wants her to stay or go. Sam gives her a lopsided grin that Dean can tell doesn't reach his brother's eyes, and presses a kiss to Jessica's forehead. "Go back to bed," he tells her. "We'll be fine and I'll be back in with you before you know it." 

Jessica yawns but nods, maybe nods because of the yawn, and she pushes a finger into Sam's chest, says, "I'll be waiting, buster." She turns to Dean, says, "Stay the night, Dean. And don't let Sam fool you into the guest room; I've got all my crap in there and it reeks of turpentine. 'Sides, the couch is so much more comfortable."

"Couch," Dean says. "Got it. Nice to meet you." 

//

With Jessica gone and the bedroom door closed, Dean follows Sam into the kitchen, sits at the small table as Sam turns on the light above the stove and then pulls two beers out of the fridge. Sam sits across from him, hands one of the beers over, and Dean can't help himself. 

"So you replace the Impala with an apartment, fine, I get that," he says, low and fierce, "but then you go and replace me with someone like _her_? Jesus, Sam, take it from one who knows but she's in ten kinds of love with you -- she has no idea you don't love her the same way, maybe even at all. And I bet she doesn't know anything about you, either, huh: not the way we were raised, not the truth about what's out there, not even about you, what you like." 

For a moment, Dean thinks Sam's going to argue with him; there's a furious gleam to his eyes that Dean's never really seen before, something bitter and hating, an edge of depressive despair. Sam doesn't, though. The next moment, he's slumping in his chair, hands picking at the label on the bottle. 

"It's what I said I came here for," Sam says. "College, a good job, someone normal," and yeah, Sam had thrown that word in Dean's face the night before he left. 

"But it ain't you," Dean says. He's angry, still, yes, but he's worried now, seeing the defeat on Sam's face. His brother's strong, stronger than him, Dean's known that for years, but tonight he looks worn thin, like life's sanded him down until he's little more than a flat sheet of resigned acceptance. "Sam." Dean waits; when Sam doesn't meet his eyes, Dean lowers his voice, down to the register that always made Sam come, and says the word to go along with it. " _Sweetheart_." 

Sam gets up, doesn't look at Dean. "It might not be perfect, okay, but it's enough. Now, I'll go get some blankets for the couch; you can use the pillows that're already out there, they're soft enough. Gimme a sec." 

As Sam walks past, Dean reaches out, grabs Sam's wrist lightly enough that if Sam wanted to pull out of Dean's hold, away from Dean's touch, he could. He doesn't. He just stands there as Dean rubs his thumb along the underside of Sam's wrist, right where the bracelet sat for years and years. Dean still has the bracelet, carries it around with him everywhere he goes, and it's old and tarnished and looks cheap and tacky when he holds it, but it's a part of Sam, an important part of Sam, and Dean's felt responsible to cling to that part of his brother, the part that only he -- apparently -- has ever seen. 

"Look," Dean says, softly. "I'm not here to judge you, sweetheart -- Sam," he corrects himself, when Sam flinches. "I came because dad's on a hunting trip and I haven't heard from him in a couple weeks. I was getting worried and the hunt's close to here, I thought maybe you'd wanna ride along, catch up. But I can tell where I'm not --" 

"Don't even say you're not wanted," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "I'll always --" and he stops himself there, even though they both know what words were about to come out of his mouth. "It's not what I imagined, sure, but it's good. It's good enough until I see you and then I can't -- I just want to be normal, Dean. It's all I've ever wanted. And I am, here." 

Dean lets Sam go, trails his fingers across Sam's wrist and then down his palm before Dean's hand drops back down to his thigh. He turns, just a little, spreads his legs, leans forward. "You were never made to be normal, Sam," Dean says. "Normal's boring and average and cul-de-sac subdivisions. That's not you. You can't tell me you're gonna live the rest of your life married to a pretty girl, working a nine-to-five, wearing suits and ties and boxer-fucking-briefs." 

Sam lets out a deep breath. He'd swayed to follow Dean, at first, then steeled himself, squared his shoulders. Dean's never been more proud of Sam, even if he thinks Sam's being a complete goddamned idiot. 

"Come with me," Dean says. "Just for the weekend. We'll stop at a drugstore and get you some polish; I think I still have one of your old t-shirts in the trunk but it might not fit across your shoulders anymore. We can pick up more, no big deal. Just this weekend to let yourself breathe and then I'll bring you back here to apple-pie America and you'll -- you'll never have to talk to me again. Please, sweetheart, give me one last weekend." 

"I can't," Sam says. He closes his eyes, says, barely loud enough for Dean to hear, "If I go with you, I won't ever come back and that would kill Jess. I can't do that to her. I won't do that to her." 

Dean swallows, looks down at Sam's bare feet, thinks that this is the first time he's seen the unpainted nails of Sam's toes since Sam was thirteen. Sam, always so selfless at the worst possible times. "Okay," he says, and stands up. "Right. Well. I'll -- uh -- I'll call you. Let you know I've found Dad. You -- you don't have to answer, I guess."

He walks past Sam, toward the front door, just barely brushes Sam's arm on his way. Sam doesn't move to follow him but Dean does hear the hitching breath as Sam fights back tears, fights back words and instincts and sheer fucking _desire_. It almost makes Dean want to turn around, fight for Sam, fight for what they used to have and what they could have, now, but it's Sam's decision. It's always been Sam's decision. 

Dean leaves, feels some light inside of him die just a little bit more with every step he takes away from his brother. 

//

Three days later, Dean calls Sam. He doesn't expect Sam to pick up, is just doing the courtesy of telling Sam that their dad's officially missing and Dean's on his track. Sam does pick up, though, says, "Dean?" like he's really fucking strung-out. 

Dean had been on his way east but he turns around at that tone of voice and starts speeding back to Palo Alto. "What is it?" he asks. "What's happened?" 

"It's Jess," Sam says, and, yeah, there are tears in his voice. "She's dead, Dean. She's -- _it was like Mom_." 

"I'll be there in two hours," Dean says. "Hang on, sweetheart. Just wait for me." 

Sam's breath is shaky, just like his voice. "I will. I -- thanks, Dean. You know I --"

"I know," Dean says, mouth gone dry. "I know, Sam. Just -- I'll be there as soon as I can." 

He hangs up, checks the speedometre, drives just that little bit faster.


End file.
